


winterfell reborn

by sansast4rk



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Marriage, Mutual Pining, Political Jon Snow, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, jonsa, takes place after the battle of winterfell AND the battle for the throne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-16 12:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18691708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansast4rk/pseuds/sansast4rk
Summary: King’s Landing is gone. The throne is gone. Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons are gone. And Jon—no, Aegon Targaryen—is left to decide what to do. How will they rebuild Westeros after all of the destruction from two mad queens and two dragons?When the war is over and the North knows of Jon's true parentage, Arya isn't happy when she hears that Jon wants to leave Winterfell for good. Ser Davos finds a solution through the power of alliance, though—through a marriage between Jon and Sansa.(takes place after the battle for the throne, and everyone knows of jon's parentage)





	1. Solutions

**Author's Note:**

> I got an ask on tumblr requesting I write this, but I wasn't going to because of time. welllll, it kept rattling around in my head and it wouldn't stop, so I had to write it out. also this was going to be a one-shot, but then I got really caught up in writing and it's WAY longer than I wanted it to be lmao, so I'm gonna make it a two-parter!

This is the first time Sansa has seen Jon since he returned home from King’s Landing. And even now, after three days of him being locked away in his chambers, she still wishes she could tell him to go back and get _more_ rest, because he looks awful. He still has cuts and bruises from the war, he’s lost weight from not only _grief_ but of the lack of food he had on their journey back from King’s Landing, and his eyes show he’s getting little-to-no sleep even when he’s not left his bed in days.

Her heart aches for him—for all he’s lost. But duty demands his presence, unfortunately, and he knows that better than anyone.

Jon, Sansa, Arya, Davos, Sam, Brienne, and Tormund—(most of) the only few left of them—are standing around the table with empty eyes and aimless stares. No one wants to be here; they want to be in bed mourning all of the people they’ve lost, but they can’t. They need to figure out what, exactly, they have to do now. They can’t mourn forever, no, but what they _did_ get wasn’t long enough.

King’s Landing is gone. The throne is gone. Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons are gone. And Jon—no, Aegon Targaryen—is left to decide what to do. How will they rebuild Westeros after all of the destruction from two mad queens and two dragons?

“For days I’ve been trying to sort through a solution to...all of this,” Jon tells them, his voice low and his eyes downcast. “But I’ve led long enough to know when I need a council. Especially when my mind is still muddled from war and travel and loss.”

He breathes in, then keeps going.

“King’s Landing is ash,” he sighs, and Sansa takes in a shuddering breath. She knew it—she’s known it for _days,_ but it’s still odd to hear it as a fact, still. To know that the Iron Throne—the reason for all of these wars, all of these losses—is destroyed. “The Iron Throne is melted beneath the fallen ceiling of the throne room. All survivors from Flea Bottom either rode to Winterfell with me, or went to nearer houses where they had family to stay with.”

“So how do you plan on getting back that pretty throne, little crow?” Tormund asks, and instead of using a teasing tone, it’s a bit gentler now. Everyone in the room is thankful for it.

“I don’t plan on getting it back,” Jon replies, finally looking up at Tormund. Arya smirks in the corner. “I plan on letting the bloody thing age into nothing. Let it sink into the ground, where history will forget it ever existed, if we’re lucky.”

Sansa takes in a long breath, just as everyone else in the room does. They all stay silent, but Jon seems to have anticipated their response, because he only looks down at his worn hands now.

“And what of Winterfell?” Sansa asks, her voice sounding scared and fragile— _too_ scared and fragile. So she clears her throat and sits up straighter, composing herself. “Will the kingdoms still stand? Will the North?”

“Aye, the kingdoms will stand,” he looks over at her finally, assuring her that her home at least isn’t being ripped away from her right after having the same thing happen to the people she lost. “Winterfell will stand, and I’m leaving it with you. The North, Winterfell...all of it.”

“Me? But before you bent the knee…” she gulps, all of it rushing out before she’s even had time to think it over beforehand. “You’re the King in the North. The people wanted _you.”_

“They _did_ want me,” he replies, shaking his head and turning to look at the table. “They did when they thought I was kin to Ned Stark—bastard or not, they thought I was his son. Now they know I’m a Targaryen. After what Daenerys did, after all the people she hurt and killed and…” he breathes out, his chest rising and falling quickly as his eyes fall to the floor again. “Now they know I’m a Targaryen, and they know the things Daenerys did, and _I_ stupidly tried to convince them all she was different when she wasn’t. You think they’ll trust me now? Trust me as their king?”

He isn’t angry—he’s upset. His eyes dart between hers, before he breathes out and looks away—his eyes flickering to the floor. She gulps, and everyone else in the room is so silent that she forgets they’re there at all.

“Besides, it should’ve been yours in the first place—as soon as we got back to Winterfell,” he shakes his head, sighing again. “I took the title and left before I even did anything as king, and you took care of everything while I was away. You’ll be a good at it—you already are.”

“Jon,” Sansa reaches out and grabs his hand, pulling his eyes to her. He  glances down at her hand on his, then back up to her eyes. She was going to tell him he’s wrong, and that he’s the one who _saved_ them all, but now that he’s looking at her, nothing at all comes out.

The rest of the room is _so_ quiet that she can hear the nervous shift of someone’s boots on the floor—Brienne’s, she thinks.

“He’s right, my lady,” Davos speaks up, sighing as he steps forward and looks between them. They both turn their eyes to him, and it’s not until Davos glances down at her hand still on Jon’s before she realizes and pulls it away to rest on her lap—her face burning with shame she shouldn’t feel. “As much as we disagree because we know him, know his reasoning, they do not. They _do_ trust you, though, Lady Stark. And they need a good, just ruler.”

Before Sansa can respond, Arya’s already walking up to stand in front of the table with the others.

“And you, Jon?” Arya asks, crossing her arms as she raises her eyebrow.

“What about me?” Jon sighs, sinking back into his seat as if he’s already exhausted with the question.

“You said you were _leaving_ Winterfell to Sansa,” Arya replies, trying to seem uncaring but Sansa notices her swallow away the lump in her throat. “So where will you go now?”

It seems more like an interrogation than a real, caring question, and Jon picks up on that too—a few seconds _after_ Sansa, yes, but he still does.

“Don’t know yet,” he answers carefully, unsure of how to deal with the question that Arya has so obviously trapped him with. “Maybe south—further than King’s Landing. That’s where I was planning on going before I left the wall.”

“Yeah? And what stopped you from doing it then?” Arya asks, narrowing her eyes. She’s almost smiling, and Sansa assumes it’s because she already knows she’s won the fight before it’s even really begun.

Jon must understand that look, too, because his eyes dart to the table with a sigh, then back up to her as he says: “Sansa did. She wanted to take back Winterfell.”

“And where are you now?” Arya questions simply, and now she _does_ smile a little, just to taunt him. “Right this second—where are you?”

Jon sighs out loud now, looking at her like he already knows his reply and hers after, but she wants him to play it out anyway.

“I’m at Winterfell.”

“Yes,” she answers, and Sansa’s heart pounds in her chest. She doesn’t want them to fight—and she _knows_ Jon doesn’t want to be in it—but she can’t help but be hurt by him, too. “You’re at Winterfell. The Winterfell that you wish you’d _never_ left. The Winterfell that you fought to get back to for _years;_ the Winterfell you defended; the Winterfell where your last remaining family is. You’re here in this room, safe and sound, with no wars to worry about. You’re here with your family. With me and Sansa who are _safe,_ and Bran who’s in his room _sleeping,_ for once, because he doesn’t have to sit next to that weirwood all bloody day and _night_ to fight off a war!”

Sansa winces slightly, but Jon stays put, taking it. Sansa can see him gulp from the corner of her eye, though, and knows he’s struggling inside. She wants to step in, wants to defend him, but...Arya’s right. She’s right, and Sansa’s angry at him too, for wanting to leave her again. Even when he told her he never would.

Everyone in the room either agrees with her, or doesn’t want to intervene in family affairs. Possibly _(definitely)_ a bit of both. She wishes the three of them had met first instead to deal with their _own_ messes, but it’s too late to send them all out in the _middle_ of it, so she pretends it’s not as humiliating as it is.

It’s clear Arya knows she went too far and is yelling too loud, so she stops and takes a moment to breathe in deeply and calm herself down. When she speaks again, it’s much softer (and kinder, even) because even though she’s angry, she doesn’t want to hurt him, still, when everything else in the world already has.

“You got all of it back after _years_ of fighting for it, and for what? Why would you do all of that just to leave it all again?” Arya asks, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. She hides it well now, after all of things she’s been through, but Sansa knew her fully _before_ any that—and there are still things you just can’t hide from the people you know down to the very root of their being. “Just to leave _us_ again?”

Sansa thought Jon would hesitate to reply so that he could calculate his reaction and response, but he hardly waits a _second_ before he’s standing from his chair, pressing his fists to the table as he stares across it at Arya.

“You think I _want_ to leave again? After all of this time fighting for it, fighting for Sansa, and you, and Bran—you think I _want_ to leave? Leave my home? Leave any of _you?”_ he breathes out, his eyes wild with fear and anger and a form of self-loathing that she’s seen in him too many times before. “It’s the last thing I want, Arya, but I have to. My whole _life_ I’ve been doing things I haven’t wanted to do, so I can do it now, too. And I will.”

“Jon,” Sansa stands now too, trying to keep her voice even and calm. “Arya’s right. You can’t leave _again_ —not after we fought so long for it. Not just for Winterfell, but for the freedom of no wars, too, and of all being together again. We have it here and now—can’t you just let yourself enjoy it?”

Jon doesn’t look at her—he won’t. He instead stares at the table, still, even when he speaks.

“They don’t trust me. My own _people,_ they...how _could_ they trust me, after what I’ve done? I don’t even blame them for it,” he lets out a huff of air, closing his eyes. “I’m not a Stark, anyway.”

Sansa clenches her jaw and Arya takes in a breath so she can _yell_ at him some more, but before she can, Sam laughs across the table. Actually _laughs,_ now, in the middle of a serious meeting—a meeting where his best friend is telling them all that he’s leaving for good.

“Is something funny?” Jon asks, furrowing his eyebrows. He looks hurt, and Sansa and Arya and everyone _else_ in the room are all confused by it too.

“I’m sorry, I just... _do_ find it funny, in a way, that you could even _say_ that,” Sam shakes his head as his smile fades, his cheeks a bright enough red to mean he knows everyone’s eyes are now on him. “Ever since I met you, all I _ever_ heard about was _Winterfell this, Winterfell that,_ until my ears were bleeding. Of what the Great Hall looked like, of the crypts, of your brothers and sisters and father and of Lady Catelyn. And still, after we didn’t see each other for a _long time_ and we’d both been through terrible things when we did, all I could ever get out of you was “ _Winterfell this, Sansa, Winterfell that, Sansa...”_

Sansa’s eyes unwillingly dart over to Jon, then, gauging _his_ reaction before she can even gauge her own. His eyes fall to the table, and he doesn’t look at her—even when he knows she’s looking at him.

Jon spoke of _her_ enough for it to be so present in Sam’s mind? And why, in a room full of people, does everyone feel a rush of discomfort settle over them when Sam says it?

Would they have blinked an eye if it had been Arya he was talking about so much?

She suddenly feels warm—too warm—feels her face getting hot, too, so she looks down at her own hand on the table.

Sam looks between the whole room, then, confused at their reactions. _A brother—no, cousin—talking about his sister_? _(cousin) So what?_ But no, it’s not exactly like that, is it? Not to her, at least, and maybe they all know it. Maybe that’s why everyone’s so uncomfortable—because they know of her feelings for him and want to keep that quiet so that they don’t shame their Lady Stark—who’s been through so much it’s no _wonder_ she came out of it insane enough to grow unnatural feelings for her brother.  _(cousin)_

“I just mean...you’re a Stark, Jon,” Sam tells him, giving a weak smile. “That’s what they’ve been trying to tell you, but you’re too stubborn to listen. Your _family_ is telling you that.”

Jon looks up at Sam, then Arya, getting lost in the possibility that he _could_ stay, and they _could_ find a solution, and he _didn’t_ have to leave Winterfell—his home—ever again. That he’s part of the pack, still, no matter his last name—and the pack can only survive _together._

But then he shakes his head and looks away, remembering the reason why he _can’t_ —always keeping it close in his mind just in case they pulled him back in.

“It’s not just about that,” he shakes his head, and only Sansa can see the way he rubs his knuckles nervously beneath the table. “It’s about how I betrayed my people; or they think I did, at least. I can’t come back from that.”

“You _saved_ them all, you idiot!” Arya raises her hands and shrugs her shoulders. “Your “betrayal” is what saved them. It’s what saved _us,_ and you, and everyone still alive in Westeros at _all._ They’ll get over it.”

“They don’t see it like that,” Jon tells her, his voice firm. “Would you get over it, if I weren’t your brother? If your king bent the knee to a dragon queen, telling you over and over she was good when she turned out to be just about as power hungry and destructive as the rest? And then it turns out they have the _same_ last name? They could think I’ve been lying about knowing this whole time—they probably do. Would you get over that, Arya?”

She opens her mouth to protest, to say _“yes, I would!”_ but she can’t. And no one in the room can, either. Even when she knows Jon deep down prays someone will—so he’ll have a reason to stay. But he would never show that, because it would mean he, for once, did something for _himself_ and not duty. But it’s Jon, and he doesn’t do that, does he?

“I may have a solution to more than one of these problems we’re troubled with. Just as long as I can speak frankly, Your Grace,” Davos steps forward again, his hands clasped behind his back. Jon lets out a breath of relief, then, and nods for him to go on. They all sit back in their chairs, finding solace in the fact that Davos is clearly _very sure_ it’s going to work before he’s even said it aloud.

“I believe we all know the best way to strengthen alliances, form unions between houses, and gain trust among them,” Davos says, his chin high, his voice sure and steady. “And that way is through marriage, isn’t it?”

Jon’s hand fidgets nervously on his lap—as if he’s piecing together what Davos is hinting at. Sansa can’t breathe, because Davos is looking at _her_ now, and _why is he looking at her?_

“Jon Stark and Sansa Stark—the King and Queen in the North.” Davos shrugs, and Sansa parts her lips to take in a shallow, uneven breath—her nervous palms pressing into her skirts. “Has quite a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”


	2. Deliberation

Sansa’s so taken aback that she can’t think or feel or _speak,_ even, as she stares blankly at Davos—using her last remaining bit of focus to control her emotions, and to not let any of her true feelings show.

Her mouth goes dry, and Jon is _completely_ still beside her, and everyone in the room is staring at them—mouths agape in horror and shock and disapproval, most likely.

“The Starks—together—could warden the North as Lady Sansa’s mother and father did before her,” Davos raises his eyebrows and tilts his head, and Sansa’s heart beats so erratically that she feels dizzy. “What better way to show your loyalty to the North than to marry their smart, trustworthy queen and bear her name? And what better way to keep Jon here in his home, and regain the trust of the people?”

Sansa can’t find a reply, and apparently Jon can’t either, because neither breathe a _word_ in response. She only hears him take in a sharp breath after Davos is finished—as if he’s still in shock and is trying to process it all at once.

“Not to offend, Ser Davos, but this has to be some sort of _joke,”_ Brienne scoffs, looking at him in disbelief as she speaks up. “They’re brother and _sister—_ of course they won’t-”

“-Cousins,” Tormund and Davos both reply in unison, and Sansa’s heart pounds in her chest. Brienne stares Tormund _down_ as if her eyes are a million daggers, but he only shrugs in response.

“I’m not _marrying_ Sansa!” Jon stands now, but even though he’s speaking about her, he still won’t _look_ at her. In fact, he looks at everyone _but_ her, which only makes her feel even _more_ uneasy, if that’s possible. She’s unsure of what to say, or do, or how to react at _all_ , so she stays silent instead. “I appreciate your attempt to solve the problem, I do, but I don’t want to hear a _word_ of this again.”

“Jon, he’s right,” Sam steps forward, seeming to have put all of the pieces together as Ser Davos already has. Did he see it earlier when her hand was on Jon’s? How _long_ has he seen it? “Not only will two houses join, but...I’ve seen you rule. Both of you. I can’t imagine a better fit for the North. I’ll admit, I was...shocked, for a moment, when Ser Davos suggested it. But it took even _less_ time for me to realize how _brilliant_ it is, too. People marry for political reasons all the _time,_ Jon, and...I think we can all agree you’d make a good match. I’ve heard the way the people of Winterfell speak of Lady Sansa having the level-headedness of her mother, and having her looks. And I can’t help but notice that when you describe Lord Eddard Stark and his greatness, his loyalty...you don’t realize that you’re also describing yourself.”

Jon clenches his jaw and swallows thickly, his eyes falling to the table again as he shakes his head, trying to think of a reply. Trying to think of a way to defy Sam’s observation, but falling short.

Ned and Catelyn.

“Ahh, I can already see the pretty curly-headed Starklings running around now,” Tormund sighs with a smile, and Jon almost chokes on the air in his lungs just from the _implication_ that he would, in fact, bed her. He looks around at them as if he can’t _believe_ they aren’t as angry as he is right now. But still he doesn’t look at Sansa. “The prettiest babes _I’d_ ever see, that’s for sure. Kissed by fire too, I’d wager.”

“Enough! I don’t want to hear another _word_ about using an unwanted marriage as a solution to a problem that _I_ caused,” Jon looks at all of them seriously, and Sansa takes in a sharp breath. “I _won’t_ marry Sansa—end of discussion.”

Is he that disgusted by the suggestion of it? Or is he still just trying to be the honorable Jon Snow—always giving help but never willing to receive it from someone else?

Sansa composes herself and summons as much courage as she possibly can, before she finally, _finally_ speaks—even though she’s terrified to do so.

“Not even if it meant you could stay? With us—your family—in Winterfell?” she asks quietly, turning to look at him for the first time since Davos even _suggested_ it.

Jon looks back at her now, too, and it’s clear that he’s in _complete_ disbelief. He assumed she would be angry that they could even _suggest_ it too, but she isn’t. She’s willing.

His eyes soften and his lips part, and her heart is thundering _so loud_ in her chest, in her ears, that she keeps her eyes on Jon to stop the room from spinning. His eyebrows are furrowed now, too, as to ask, _“how can you be serious?”_

She swallows back her fear, swallows back her feelings, and gathers enough bravery to stand to her feet, too. Everyone is silent, and their eyes are completely focused on her—waiting for her reaction to all it.

“We _are_ cousins, and that’s an acceptable marriage arrangement,” she speaks up, keeping her voice even, willing her hands to stay still and not tremble. “If it means Jon could stay, and that the people would accept him…of course I’ll do it.”

Jon just _stares_ at her—but she can’t tell if it’s in complete _horror_ or if it’s in disbelief at her sacrifice. But he doesn’t know that it isn’t really much of a sacrifice at all.

Arya is eerily silent about the situation, which only makes Sansa more and more frightened for her reaction. When she trained with the faceless men, she learned how to read people’s lies, didn’t she? So can she see all of Sansa’s now, out in the open, as she convinces them she’ll marry for duty and not because she _wants_ a marriage to the cousin they once called brother?

She can marry Jon, but she can’t let any of them—or he _himself,_ even _—_ know that she wants it so badly she aches. She wishes with everything in her that she didn’t have ulterior motives, that it was all a selfless act so that Jon could stay, but deep down, even when she doesn’t want to admit it, she knows the truth. Knows that she’s doing it for selfish reasons—not for duty. But she can hide that forever if she needs to, and she will—just as long as Jon doesn’t leave. Not again.

“I’d like to speak to Sansa alone, please,” Jon tells them, but keeps his eyes on her a few moments longer before tearing them away, and watching them all slip out the door without a word. They’re all probably _thankful_ to leave the tension-filled room behind.

“If I could leave you both with something else before I go,” Davos exhales, keeping his hands clasped behind his back. Jon clenches his fist, relaxes it, then nods at Davos to continue. “Excuse my bluntness, Your Grace, my Lady, but...this was not just an impulsive thought to solve one problem. It’s a compatible union between houses, it’s a way to keep you in the North where you _belong,_ and it’s a way to keep House Stark from ending entirely as so many other noble houses have already. And to be completely honest, I’ve been thinking of all the benefits to this match for much longer than as a sudden thought today. No one in this room—or in Winterfell at all—could deny the strength and competence the two of you would form as King and Queen.”

Jon takes in a long breath, and Sansa swallows thickly and stares out the window. She struggles to hide her nerves, even though they would be understood entirely by everyone in the room who could see them. But the nerves are for another reason entirely than they believe; it’s _not_ because she’s being nudged into a marriage alliance with Jon—not at all. It’s the fact that she _wants_ it that’s burdening her so badly, and churning her belly with guilt.

Jon only nods in reply, before Davos bows slightly and then makes his way out of the room along with the rest of them.

Arya—the last one still in the room with them—stops beneath the doorway on her way out of it, and turns back to stare. Sansa watches her with an anxious gulp. _Is she going to hate me again, now, after we only just started getting along?_

“I don’t plan on producing heirs, and Bran already told us he won’t either because of the whole “Three-Eyed Raven” thing. Which leaves _Sansa_ to continue on House Stark. If she were to marry anyone else...those heirs wouldn’t have the Stark name,” she tells them calmly, as if she had enough time to already think it all over and form a full decision. Her eyes dart between theirs, then, but they stop on Sansa and _stare._ They stare as if she knows of Sansa’s guilt, somehow. “I’m okay with it, if it helps. Bran will be, too. As long as it means you stay here with us, Jon, and it keeps you safe...I’m okay with it. Really, I am.”

Jon lets out an uneven breath, removing his knuckles from the table and standing up straight. He doesn’t have a reply, really—not one that wouldn’t make him look like he’s okay with it all, too—so he just nods his head again as he did with Davos. Arya hesitates in the doorway for a few moments, then, her eyes still on them both as if she _knows_ Sansa’s truth—the one she’s been trying so hard to hide—before walking out and shutting the door behind her.

As soon as they’re alone, Jon clenches his fists again and gulps, turning his back to her as he looks at the floor. There’s so many things they should say, and talk about, but instead they remain silent and let the unspoken words engulf the entirety of the now-empty room in discomfort.

Finally, after she was about to reluctantly speak about _anything_ just to fill the silence surrounding them, Jon speaks up first instead.

“What are you _thinking,_ Sansa? Agreeing with them like that?” he breathes out with a sigh, his head hanging low before he finally turns to look at her. His eyes are _too_ soft, _too_ caring, and he shakes his head as he lets out a breath of air. “I’m not doing it. I’m not taking this away from you—I won’t.”

“You think you’re taking something away from me, but you aren’t. You wouldn’t be,” she replies, looking in his eyes as sincerely as she can. “I’ve already agreed to it, Jon. I’m fine.”

He listens to her words intently, but he’s so clearly upset about it all that she feels sick with herself for ever even _agreeing_ to it.

“Sansa,” he clenches his jaw, keeping his voice low and serious. “I’m not forcing you into yet _another_ marriage. How selfish would I have to be to make you marry me just so I could stay in Winterfell? How selfish would I have to be to hurt you like that, and take away your chance to ever have a _real_ marriage? And to have a real family, like I know you want?”

“I used to dream of marriage as something it never _really_ was, but I know better than that now. I know how the world works, which means that I _know_ no one would marry me for love. They would marry me for my title, for my name, for...for _anything_ other than love. I know that now. But with you...I _trust_ you. You would never hurt me, I know it—which is much more than I can say for anyone I could be matched with in the future.” she explains, licking her dry lips as he turns away and takes in a trembling breath. “I was forced into my other past marriages, but I’m willing in this one. I am, fully. As long as you are.”

“You shouldn’t only think of _duty,”_ he replies, his chest rising and falling heavily, now, as he sets his hand on hers for comfort. “You should think about yourself, and your own happiness—not mine. You’ve already given up too much. I can’t do that to you. I can’t.”

 _“I’ve_ given up too much?” she asks with a laugh, his hand on hers _burning_ the skin of her own that he touches. He removes it then after hearing her tone, and takes a step back. “You’ve given up _everything,_ Jon. Everything. I can’t even recall _one_ decision you’ve made that was to your benefit and not someone else’s. And now, after you’ve fought for _years_ for the living, for Winterfell, for your family...you’re going to give it up and continue to be unhappy just so everyone else _can_ be happy? You _always_ give up your own wants, and you _always_ make sacrifices for others, and…”

She has to pause, then, because her voice is growing louder, and her entire body is shaking with nerves, and she’s so overwhelmed with emotion that she can’t quite speak what she _really_ means by all of it. Jon just looks at her—his breath equally as heavy as he listens, as he waits for her to compose herself and continue.

“It’s _your_ turn to be happy for once. Everyone here—everyone in _Westeros—_ is alive because of _you._ I’ve never met someone so giving, or caring, or...or _good_. None except father, and you’ve grown even smarter, sharper than he ever did.” she swallows away her fear, looking in his eyes seriously. “So don’t speak to me about _duty_ when I’m fully aware of what I’m giving up, and I’m okay with it. If you say no—if you decide you still want to leave—do it for your _own_ sake. Not mine. Because if it means you can stay here in Winterfell, with me and Bran and Arya...calling you husband instead of cousin is no sacrifice at all.”

He looks at her then with such intensity that her heart feels as if it could _burst_ from her chest, and she can _see_ him gulp, and see how he struggles to catch his breath, too.

“You could marry for love, still,” he finally speaks, his voice hardly above a whisper. “You could, Sansa. You’re young yet—you could find someone if that’s what you wanted. Someone who could give you heirs, and marry you for love and not for your name. I know it doesn’t seem possible after what you’ve been through, I do. But it is. Marrying you for love would come easily to a good man—to a man who saw you for who you are, and saw past your titles.”

She hesitates a moment, wondering whether she should say what’s on her mind or not. Or is it too telling?

“Do you think it could ever come easily to _you?”_ she asks quietly, keeping her chin high, her stance confident—as if it's a question of duty rather than her own _personal_ worry. But she fears her voice gave it all away, regardless of her carefully placed expression and demeanor.

He takes in a deep breath and shuts his eyes—the misery clear in his face, his stance, the way he can't keep eye contact with her. She takes in a breath and pretends she isn't hurting.

“I know I’m not the first choice of woman you want to marry, Jon. I know that. But...mother used to tell me of how she grew to love father _after_ they married. How it was difficult at first, but it happened eventually all the same. And we already have a stronger advantage than they did—we know one another more than anyone else ever could. We’ve survived through things from nightmares, and for a long time, we did that together. Unlike mother and father, we _already_ love one another—even if it’s not the same way. We’re already ahead of them, in that sense.”

He stares at her for a few more beats, before he looks away and shakes his head. Her heart sinks, and she tries not to show how scared she is to hear his reply.

But it never comes. He only stands there in silence, and she can’t tell if he’s okay with leaving her questions unanswered, or if he’s trying to think of something to say. But she can’t take the heartbreaking silence anymore, so she continues on—even though she didn’t plan on doing so.

“You could be a Stark, if you wanted it,” she smiles sadly, her eyes filling with the tears she’s been trying _so hard_ to fight. “Not Aegon Targaryen, not Jon Snow, but Jon Stark—the King in the North. Married to the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, and the heir to Winterfell. You’re a Stark to us _already,_ you know that, but...with a marriage, it could be official. Finally, after all these years.”

“You think I care for titles? You think I _care_ you’re the heir to Winterfell? It isn’t about that.” he answers, finally, his voice breaking. “It’s about me being yet _another_ man to take something from you. Taking away your chance to be happy, and-”

 _“You_ could make me happy!” she answers, setting her hand on the table to steady herself as she raises her voice. “I _know_ it, Jon—I _know_ you could. That’s what I’ve been trying to _tell_ you. But if it’s not what you want, and if you feel as if _I’m_ the one taking something from _you_...just say so. Just say you don’t want to marry me, and I’ll understand—I will. But don’t say no because you think you’re saving me, because you aren’t. If anything, you’re _helping_ me with a marriage—I could finally be with someone I trust, for once. If it weren’t for you, for your heart, your kindness...I would have lost all faith in good men a long time ago.”

“Sansa,” he exhales, his lips parting as he darts his eyes between hers. If he’s trying to find hesitation in them, or uneasiness, he won’t. Because she doesn’t feel those things—not even a little. “There’s...there’s things you don’t understand. Things that if you found out, you would hate me for. I’m not the great man you think I am. I’m not your father.”

“You’ve made mistakes, Jon, who _hasn’t?”_ she replies in exasperation, taking a step closer to him as a fire burns within her—in her temper, in her expression, in her selfish, greedy want for him that she’s _still_ attempting to cover up even as she asks him to marry her.

He breathes out through his nose and takes a step back away from her, which hurts her even worse than his verbal denial of her _ever_ has. With his words, she never knows if he says things because he thinks it _right_ to or if he actually _feels_ them, but with a _physical_ act of denial that way—wanting to be as far away from her as he possibly can—it feels more like an answer than any of the things he’s actually said aloud.

“They aren’t just _mistakes,_ Sansa,” he replies, his voice full of somethingshe's still unable to figure out. “If you knew of the things I wanted, or...or of _any_ of it, you’d have reacted _much_ differently to their suggestion of marriage with me. You would have—I know it. You wouldn’t have even thought _twice_ about saying no, and you would’ve said it without even having to think about it.”

“What _things,_ Jon?” she asks, confusion evident in her expression. “If you don’t want to marry me, just _say_ it! Stop making excuses, and stop pretending you’re some awful man when I _know_ you aren’t. I’m not the stupid, naive girl I used to be—just tell me you don’t want me and be done with it!”

He clenches his jaw and tries to hold back his frustration, but it comes flooding out suddenly no matter how hard he tries to stop it.

“What if the problem is that I _do_ want you?!” he pants, his fists clamped angrily at his sides. He says it like he can’t hold it in anymore, and his chest rises and falls rapidly with his quick, labored breaths.

His shoulders are held high with tension, too, and his eyes have that _thing_ they always have in them when they argue with one another. That thing she’s never been able to explain, even when she’s tried so desperately to analyze it all afterwards.

He visibly relaxes a bit more, then, before closing his eyes and letting out a long breath to compose himself before he continues.

“What if…” he starts quietly this time, and she feels her chest constrict with _hope,_ maybe, that he means what she thinks he might. Could he? “What if a part of me _wants_ the marriage, and wouldn’t be doing it for duty at all? But because of things I’ve felt for you long before I should have? Long before I knew we were only cousins, and that it was acceptable?”

She has to part her lips to breathe, now, because it’s all so overwhelming and the tension is still high—much too high for her to think clearly—and he’s looking at her in a way that _hurts._

“I can’t marry you, Sansa,” he tells her softly, shaking his head. “Because for you it would be a responsibility as the Lady of Winterfell. Or as a sister, even. It would be something you felt you _had_ to do to help me, and keep me in the North. But for me...it would be _selfish._ It would be twisted, and I would be using your goodness, your selfless sacrifice, to get something _I_ want—something I _shouldn’t_ want with you. I would be just as bad as those other men if I took this from you for my own gain. I couldn’t live with myself for it, and you shouldn’t have to deal with...with the lies and deceit and pain—not anymore. Not ever again.”

She struggles to hold herself together, then, while so many emotions are flooding her all at once.

“I know you don’t want to hear it—I do,” he looks at her sadly, and her heart _aches_ for him. “I promise you that I was going to bury that secret, that want, until the day I _died_ if I needed to. I didn’t want to be just another person to hurt you—that’s the _last_ thing I wanted. But I know I’d end up hurting you _worse_ if I gave in to the marriage, and...and _used_ you like that. I can’t do it, Sansa, and I won’t.”

His eyes fall to the floor, then—his overwhelming amounts of guilt unable to let him fully look at her. He seems as if he’s a scared little boy again—the one that was shamed if he, a bastard, even _looked_ at a lady; especially such a soft, beautiful, _innocent_ one as Sansa Stark. Somewhere in him, he still believes his unworthy eyes shouldn’t be able to look at her at all.

“Jon,” she whispers, her voice breaking. She steps forward, then, and he reluctantly glances up to read her reaction—to search for the disgust he’s sure she must feel. But he never finds it—instead, she moves closer and looks in his dark, gentle eyes. “As smart as you’ve grown, you’re still such an _idiot_ sometimes.”

His eyes fall again and he nods in acceptance—nods knowing she must hate him—but instead she laughs and she cries at once, taking in a gasp of air as she closes the space between them and wraps her arms around him. She laughs into his neck, then, and can’t stop it even when she _knows_ she must sound mad.

Jon stumbles back slightly as she falls into him, but she’s clutching onto him desperately, still, and smiling into his neck—the neck that’s so warm and soft and it’s _him_ and that’s all that matters.

When she realizes he’s stiff, still, she thinks of how entirely confused he must feel. So she pulls back eventually—reluctantly—and looks at his baffled expression.

“I’ve felt it, too,” she looks between his eyes, sighing into her confession. “I have for a while. For the longest time I thought...I thought I was broken. That Ramsay broke me, and made me sick and twisted just as he was. But now, knowing you feel it too…”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he swallows thickly, his uncertainty clear in his voice, his expression, his guarded stance. “Sansa, you don’t have to pretend this to make me feel better, or to make me feel less guilty so that I’ll marry you.”

“Is it so difficult to believe I could want you, too?” she smiles sadly, shaking her head. “Jon, I do. I _want_ you, and not just for duty, or for politics, but because of the things I’ve felt for you since long before I should have as well. I would do it to keep you here—of course I would—but I’ve been selfish too. Believe me, I have.”

He’s looking up at her through his dark lashes, and he’s still guarding himself just in case this is all a dream. Or in case she’s lying to him and holding back humiliating him and shaming him until he fully gives into his feelings.

But she’s not Catelyn, and he isn’t a bastard.

Instead of letting him continue with his disbelieving questions, she steps forward again and presses her lips to his—stopping his words where they started. He’s so warm and gentle and Jon— _fully_ Jon—and it’s all even better than she wished it would be after so long of only imagining it and hoping for it.

His lips are soft yet _completely_ unmoving against hers, but right as she’s about to pull away and convince him of her feelings with words instead, his fingers push through her hair and pull her closer, and his lips part and kiss her back. 

Her first kiss she’s _wanted,_ and he wants it too. And he isn’t doing it because of her title, or her last name, or because he wants to stay in Winterfell. He’s not doing it for _any_ other reason than that he _wants_ to, and wants _her,_ and she can’t fathom that she could _actually_ end up with everything she’s always wanted after all of the horrible things she’s been through.

“If you want this...if you _really_ want this,” he breathes out against her lips, pressing his forehead to hers. “We can marry. You would be the Queen in the North and I’d be the King in the North, but...it would fully be yours, Sansa. All of it forever if that’s what you wanted. I’d only want the title of king so I can address you as my wife.”

She’s been tricked with words this kind and gentle before, but they were from men whose only intention was to play the game—no matter how much they would have to hurt and kill and betray others to win it.

But Jon doesn’t play the game, though, and he never _will._ His words are pure and free of lies and flattery for his own manipulation tactics. He’s genuine and honest and entirely sincere in everything he says, and somehow she _still_ can’t believe a man so _stupidly_ good is standing in front of her now, telling her he wants to marry her.

“I’ll stand by your side as you rule Winterfell, and I’ll only give orders if you ever ask it of me,” he brings her hand up to his mouth, kissing her knuckle. “As I said before, the North, Winterfell, _everything..._ it's all yours. The only thing I'll ever want is you, if you’ll have me.”

She looks at him for a moment to take it all in, before she smiles and pulls him towards her, kissing him again in reply. She’s never felt more safe in her _life_ as she does now wrapped in him, and the wars are over, and the throne is gone, and she can _breathe,_ now, for the first time since she left Winterfell all that time ago. 

Jon, the man who thought he was a bastard his whole life, the man who only wanted to be a true Stark, and to be loved like a son by Catelyn Stark. Sansa, the girl who, in the beginning, wanted nothing in the world more than a handsome prince, and to be queen one day, and to be loved fiercely by the king she ruled with.

They both have been through horribly-awful circumstances, and have since forgotten all of the things they once yearned for, prayed for, and dreamed of. But now, since the war and the horrors are over, they’ve unintentionally found what they always wanted—always _needed—_ in each other.

Although Jon never got the love he wanted from Catelyn, he’s now found a different kind of love from another red-headed Stark that mirrors her greatly in looks, maybe, but not in demeanor. While Catelyn was always jaded by what she thought to be her husband’s betrayal, Sansa has a kind, gentle sort of forgiveness that her mother never learned. Something Jon has yearned for and needed for _years,_ and it’s something she can give to him easily—without hesitation or difficulty.

On the other hand, Sansa has found love in the most gentle, caring man she’s ever known. And even though she assumed marriage for love was a ridiculous, childish dream, it’s actually within her grasp now, with him. With someone she _wants_ to marry, and doesn’t have to do so for duty or politics or for _any_ other reason other than the fact that she _wants_ it.

There’s no more wars, now, and no more threats of it, either. The throne is gone, the Night King is gone, _Cersei_ is gone. And finally, after living in fear for years and years and years, Sansa has peace, somehow, after thinking it would never be possible.

Although they have to learn how to mourn all of the loved ones they’ve lost, they know they can finally be happy in the new Winterfell they’re going to build _together._ And finally, after years of losing all hope in it, the Starks warden the North once more. And they do that together, too.


End file.
